


the fated thought of you

by FandomTrash24601



Series: Only Room to Rise [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Affection, Canon-Typical Violence, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derogatory Language, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Are Soulmates, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Growly Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Non-Explicit Sex, Passively suicidal thoughts, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Soulmates, Rumors, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Sort Of, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers, discussion of triggers, does it count if it's standing up, horribly incorrect rumors about Witchers, it's my fic i say it does, it's not super angsty but not super fluffy oh god how do i tag this, they deserve it!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24896950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601
Summary: When the Witcher army makes its way into Tretogor, Julian wonders if anyone will give a single damn about his death. As Vizimir’s favorite “entertainer,” he’s being kept at the king’s side, and the rumors say that the White Wolf’s forces take no prisoners.Title from The Amazing Devil's "Fair."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Series: Only Room to Rise [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806898
Comments: 114
Kudos: 1785
Collections: Inspired by inexplicific Accidental Warlord AU, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	the fated thought of you

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



When the Witcher army makes its way into Tretogor, Julian wonders if anyone will give a single damn about his death. As Vizimir’s favorite “entertainer,” he’s being kept at the king’s side, and the rumors say that the White Wolf’s forces take no prisoners. He’ll be slaughtered along with Vizimir’s guards and the man himself; Julian knows that they don’t actually have a chance against an entire army of mutated superhumans, but Vizimir is too stubborn to flee even if he sent his wife and children away. Julian keeps his mouth shut; the thoughts of a pretty whore are worse than worthless.

Julian keeps his mind carefully blank as Vizimir “works off his stress,” hips pumping sporadically under the weight of arthritis, although he makes sure to produce the sounds that Vizimir wants to hear. He’s not the favorite without reason.

He grits his teeth as Vizimir spills sloppily inside of him, keeps quiet as he pulls away and tidies himself up. With nowhere else to go, Julian remains sprawled—unsatisfied—across the bed. Just like no one cares for the thoughts of a whore, no one cares for their pleasure either.

Small mercies, though; Vizimir tosses a sheer silken shawl across him in an attempt at the barest levels of decency, the fabric a sky blue that brings out his eyes. He closes his eyes to hide the hearth-lit room and wonders if his death will be quick. He hopes so.

Although maybe—maybe they’ll keep him. He’s leaking spend, naked except for a poor excuse for a shawl, and his eyes are lined with just enough smudged kohl for them to shine like gems. He’s attractive, the king’s favorite. Who’s to say that the Witcher’s won’t divvy him up amongst their own rather than kill him with the rest?

He swallows hard to keep down bile, imagines how cold the line of a sword will feel against his neck. It’ll be coated in blood by then, after mowing down all the guards between them and Vizimir, but it’ll feel so good in the brief moment he has to appreciate the sensation. It’ll feel like rebirth, like freedom.

There’s shouting in the distance. Screaming. Julian doesn’t move, feels his body tremble and relaxes into the rich sheets below him. He’s not scared, not really. He’s acutely aware of his superheated skin, of how his inner thighs are already damp and tacky. His heart pounds a rapid beat inside his chest, but he feels distanced from his own body. Although he’d rather not die with semen seeping from him, he’s not particularly upset about it. He’s… Well, he’s ready.

Vizimir, sweaty from recent exertions but fully dressed, paces around the large, luxuriously decorated room. He wrings his bejeweled hands and shakes his crowned head. Julian has his eyes open now and watches Vizimir pace dispassionately. What’s the point in worrying? There’s nothing they can do to stop the incoming Witchers.

When the fight reaches the doors, when the guards right outside start screaming, Vizimir grabs a sword that probably hasn’t been used in decades from above the fireplace. Julian blinks lazily at him, distantly amused. Why try? Does he really think one out-of-practice, overweight man is enough to stop an army of Witchers, one that’s slaughtered all of his men?

The door bursts inward with one brutal kick, splintering apart to reveal the most intimidating man Julian’s ever seen. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, half of his face disfigured by a network of scars, and the massive sword in his hand is dripping blood. He himself is splattered with blood, drops spelling out a constellation across his face. The red only brings out the brilliant amber of his cat-like eyes.

“Stay back!” It’s clear that Vizimir means to bellow the words, but his voice shakes too badly for it to come across as remotely intimidating. His sword shakes in his grip.

The Witcher—one of many, now flooding the room to entrap Vizimir in a circle of bloody swords—grins like a shark, although one side of his mouth doesn’t lift right. “Vizimir.”

“That’s _King_ Vizimir to you, beast,” Vizimir spits.

“You’re no king,” the Witcher says. “You’re a coward with a crown.”

And then the Witcher standing behind Vizimir lunges forward and stabs him through the neck.

Julian watches with morbid interest as Vizimir’s body drops. His crown rolls off of his head, curves its way back to Vizimir through the spreading blood and comes to a stop against his arm. There’s so much more blood than Julian thought there’d be, spilling and spilling and spilling to stain the carpet a deadly shade of crimson. He just blinks, wonders if his own blood will mingle with Vizimir’s. Man and slave, owner and owned, together even in death. The thought makes his stomach turn.

The next thing he knows, all twelve Witchers in the room have turned their eyes to him. Something hot floods his stomach and torso, not lust but perhaps anticipation. He doesn’t move besides blinking, letting his eyes roam over the dozen bloody, heavily-muscled mutants that all seem shocked by his presence.

“Hello,” the first Witcher says. “You’re, uh—?”

“His favorite whore,” Julian says. His voice doesn’t shake, and he takes a brief moment to be proud of himself for being braver than Vizimir. “And you are?”

“Eskel,” Eskel says. His eyebrows are pinched together; he doesn’t look so scary like this. “Why do you want to know my name?”

“Can’t a boy want to know the name of the man who will take his life?” Julian shifts onto his back and sits up, ignoring the uncomfortable rush of semen exiting his body. The silken shawl is by his waist, but he doesn’t make a move to cover his dignity; the fabric is see-through and he’s got no shame left at this point. He even dares to roll his eyes at Eskel. “Everyone knows the White Wolf takes no prisoners. Just make it quick, if you please.”

The Witchers don’t move. They’re all just… staring at him. At _him_ , not his dick, which is actually a little weird. Their swords are lowered and drip more blood onto the already-ruined carpet.

“He doesn’t, no,” Eskel admits slowly. “But you’re an innocent. We didn’t come for you.”

“How do you know I’m not loyal to him?” Julian challenges, wondering if he can annoy them into killing him before they decide to pass him around. Anything would be better than that; he hears Witchers have dicks that are barbed like a cat’s with knots like a wolf’s. “He’s still leaking from my arse.”

Eskel frowns. It’s different from the scowl he’d had when facing down Vizimir. With just a jerk of his sword, the other Witchers in the room begin to file towards the door and down the hall. He hears them descending the stairs, stepping over dead bodies on their way. For a long time after they vanish from Julian’s hearing, Eskel remains quiet. They just stare at each other, amber on blue.

“You don’t smell loyal,” Eskel says at last.

Julian raises his eyebrows. “I smell like him.”

“No, not his—his seed. To a degree, Witchers can smell emotion. Even if you hide any expression, we can still _smell_ it. You didn’t smell like anything when we killed him.”

“You didn’t know I was there,” Julian points out.

“Exactly. If you had been upset, we would’ve smelled it and noticed you. But we didn’t, because you didn’t smell like anything.”

Julian sighs and closes his eyes. “I’m telling you right now, I’m not escaping the servitude of one man only to be tossed to the White Wolf like a meal; I’ll jump from the windows first, I swear I will.”

“Why—“ Eskel makes a sound that Julian thinks is disgruntlement. “You though we were going to, what, pass you around like an object before handing you off to be a slave to the Wolf?"

The note of derision in Eskel’s voice is infuriating, and his eyes snap back open to meet Eskel’s gaze. “Yes,” he snaps. “Is that so hard to believe? That the big mutants should go bump in the night would want a turn with a king’s favorite toy?”

“I suppose if you consider the rumors of who Witchers are supposed to be, then no, it’s not hard to believe. But they’re just that—rumors.” Eskel shakes his head. “We will not lay a hand on you unless it is at your request.”

“Hmph.” Julian stands from the bed and feels more semen trickle down his legs. He grabs the shawl and wraps it around his shoulders, feeling truly naked under Eskel’s glowing eyes. At least his erection has gone down. “What do you plan on doing with me, then, if you’re not going to kill me or force me into service?”

Eskel glances at the windows. It’s dark outside, but beyond the glass is a wide world that Julian’s never really seen. Eskel has probably seen all of it, or at least a great deal of it.

“We’ll let you go. You’ll be a free man.”

Julian looks at the windows, too. The world beyond is full of men, who are very often rotten and very rarely good. He knows all too well what lurks beneath the surface of humanity, and hates it. What’s out there for him? A measly room in a whorehouse, where he’ll work until he’s can no longer pass as a teenager, and then what? Will he starve on the streets, or will he be killed first?

He had been so sure of his death that he hadn’t considered freedom, and now that he’s doing so he’s not certain that he likes it.

“Could a free man make his way to the home of the Witchers?” Julian asks before he can think.

“I beg your pardon?”

He turns his face back towards Eskel, whose raised eyebrows and parted lips are cast half in shadow by the fire in the hearth. It’s a funny look on a Witcher, shock. He almost wants to laugh.

“Could a free man make his way to the home of the Witchers?” Julian asks again. “All that’s out there—“ He gestures expansively towards the windows. “—is a stint at a brothel before I die poor and alone, likely on the short side of forty. Can I assume my fate would be better should I place my bet with you?”

“You wouldn’t have to sell yourself in order to survive at Kaer Morhen,” Eskel says slowly, like he’s trying to measure his words or is confused that he’s speaking in the first place, “but it’s often very cold, and you’ll have to earn your keep in some way.”

“That’s fine,” Julian says, shaking his head. Around the edges of his shawl, his fingers have gone white; he’ll tear the fabric with any more force. “If what I can do isn’t useful, I’ll find something useful and learn how to do it.”

“You mean that.” Eskel sounds flabbergasted.

“Of course I do.”

“You’ll have to swear your loyalty to the White Wolf,” Eskel warns him. “Utterly and completely. Any attempts at spying will result in your swift execution.”

“Who am I going to spy for?” Julian retorts. “The rudderless government of the man who _owned_ me?”

“Hmm,” Eskel says. “Okay, then. Geralt might kill me for this, but—“ He shakes his head. “We need to reconvene with the others, briefly, and then we’ll see about getting you proper clothes.”

“What’s wrong with this?” Julian asks in a lilting, teasing tone, shimmying the shawl for emphasis.

Eskel snorts. “Other than the fact that it barely exists?”

Julian offers a crooked, impish smile and follows him out of the room, careful to avoid the puddle of Vizimir’s congealing blood. He’s spent too much time covered in the man’s fluids; never again.

“Do you have clothes?” Eskel questions as they make their way down from the tower Vizimir had hidden in. “Or will we have to borrow some?”

“I have clothes.”

The other Witchers are waiting in the main lobby, which is partially on fire and littered with several dead guards. Julian looks at their bodies dispassionately. It’s a shame to waste so much life, sure, but these are the men who stood guard outside Vizimir’s chambers as Julian was first “broken in,” the ones who listened to him cry and did nothing. He’ll be shedding no tears over them.

As Eskel and Julian reach the dozen Witchers, another one enters the room with heavy, angry footsteps. His fists are clenched, his mouth pursed, his eyes flashing. Julian should probably be scared of him; any reasonable man would be.

“Their scent disappears in the mage’s quarters, and the whole place reeks of magic,” the new Witcher spits.

“Calm down, Lambert,” Eskel says.

“What’re we supposed to do without royal figureheads?” Lambert shouts, gesturing wildly. “Designate one of the servants to be the new vassal king?”

“They probably went to the hunting lodge,” Julian says.

Lambert tosses Julian a puzzled—but not hostile—expression. “Who’re you?” He looks to Eskel without waiting for Julian to respond. “Who’s that? You found the time to buy a whore during a castle raid?”

“He’ll be coming with us to Kaer Morhen,” Eskel explains. “We’ll need to find him clothes first, but—”

“Congratulations,” Lambert drawls, “but who is he and where did he come from? And why does he know anything about where the royal family would’ve fled to?”

“I was Vizimir’s favorite little toy,” Julian snarks. “Unwillingly, mind you. But even a whore has ears.”

“You’re bringing King Vizimir’s favorite sex slave back to Kaer Morhen with us?” Lambert throws his head back and guffaws, loud and sharp. “Oh, Eskel, oh gods, this is too good.”

“I’m glad you’re amused, Lambert.” Eskel looks tired. Julian doesn’t blame him. “Why don’t you wait here with the others; we can’t very well take him to Kaer Morhen without clothes.”

“Geralt is going to lose his shit,” Lambert cackles.

Eskel sighs, like an older sibling reaching the end of their patience, and gestures for Julian to step ahead of him. “Lead the way.”

Julian struts shamelessly through the corridors to the servants’ wing. He steps over bodies and puddles of blood without breaking stride, determined to prove to the Witchers that he’s more than a pretty little face and also not caring about the bodies of men willing to lay down their lives for a monster.

In the short corridor overwhelmingly occupied by Vizimir’s “entertainers,” Julian slows his pace and makes sure to knock gently on the door. Privacy is not a benefit that the whores are allowed to have, and so he shares his room with a girl named Yvonna.

After several seconds, the door creaks open just a sliver. He can see little more than her eye through the crack in the door, plain brown. At the sight of the Witcher standing right behind Julian, she lets out a short, stifled shriek.

“Julian,” she gasps. “Behind you!”

“Yes, I know.” He smiles at her. “I’m going with him. Vizimir’s dead—I watched them put him down like the dog he was.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“I need clothes.” He wiggles one hand, and the shawl shifts with the movement. “This will hardly keep me protected in the mountains. Also, I’m still leaking and want to clean up before I go.”

Yvonna opens the door with shaking hands and allows Julian entry. She cowers like a cornered animal in her own room, though, not taking her eyes from Eskel.

“I’ll wait in the hallway,” Eskel says.

“I shouldn’t take long.”

The door swings shut, leaving him and Yvonna in meager candlelight. She wets a clean-ish rag with a shaky sigh and watches him toss his shawl onto the bed before squatting over the chamberpot. Her eyes are soft and worried.

“You’re really going with _Witchers?”_ she asks, her voice gone breathy with shock.

“I am.”

“But their cocks—”

“If Eskel’s telling the truth, I’ll never have to touch one.” Julian stands properly again and takes the offered rag to wipe himself down with, quick but thorough. He has to scrub a little at his inner thighs. “And I think he is.”

“If you’re sure,” she says hesitantly, “then good luck.”

There’s a chest at the end of his bed where Julian’s clothes are kept. There’s some underclothes, some breeches and doublets, some shawls like the one pooled on his bed. He pulls on a pair of underclothes and a chemise that’s both comfortable and detailed. Next comes his warmest outfit, a breech and doublet set made of navy blue wool and embroidered in a soft, cloudy gray. He doesn’t have thick socks, but he puts on two pairs and figures that those along with the boots will be enough to protect his feet.

“Be safe,” he tells her, one hand clutching the neck of his lute and the other resting on the door handle.

She offers him a soft smile. “Likewise.”

Eskel is still standing in the hallway when he emerges, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s still covered in blood, but his sword is sheathed. His eyebrows raise when his eyes drop to Julian’s lute, and Julian scowls at him.

“I’m not just a whore,” he snaps. “I was an actual entertainer, sometimes.”

Eskel raises his hands, palms forward and fingers spread in a gesture of pacification. “I never said you weren’t.”

A couple more Witchers have joined the group in the lobby by the time Eskel and Julian returns. Julian watches Eskel do a headcount, nod to himself, and then pull a small box from a sack hanging from his waist. He flips open the lid of the ornately carved container and, to Julian’s surprise, starts to talk into it.

“Hey, Yen, we’re ready for a portal.”

“Vizimir’s dead?” A woman’s voice, tinny but still sophisticated, comes through the empty box.

“Court mage portalled his family away, so we’ll have to go after them, but yeah. He’s dead.”

“I’ll track them. Portal incoming.”

Eskel closes the little box and shoves it back into the small sack. “She’ll want your help tracking them, since you’re the one who knows where they might be.”

Julian shrugs. “Alright.”

With a rapid movement of air and a sharp, bitter smell that Julian’s nose insists is unnatural, a spherical portal opens up before the Witchers. Beyond it stands the scariest woman Julian has ever seen, with long dark hair and violet eyes that all but glow even from several feet away. Her black dress has a drastic chest window, and neat cursive letters meander over the upper swell of her left breast. Briefly, in the moment before her eyes focus on him, Julian wonders if Witchers have soulmarks.

“Who’s that?” she demands, icy.

Julian makes a snap decision, thinks of the bright yellow flowers he admired even when in the back of a slave cart, pretty but poisonous. “My name is Jaskier,” he says, and leaves Julian behind.

 _“Buttercup?”_ Lambert demands incredulously from somewhere behind him.

Everyone ignores him, and Jaskier follows the Witchers through the portal with little issue. It’s disorienting, to say the least; he’s never been through a portal before, and his stomach lets him know as much.

“Motherfucker,” Jaskier mutters, pressing a hand over his stomach to try and quell his nausea.

The other Witchers vanish through doorways into the stony depths of Kaer Morhen, the White Wolf’s impenetrable stronghold. Jaskier looks around, noting the lack of banners, carpets, and other such expected decorations. He should be scared. He should, realistically, be pissing himself with fright. But Eskel has yet to look at him with anything even remotely resembling aggression, and so far the promise of no Witchers touching him has been kept.

“Are you going to go with them?” Jaskier asks, watching the final Witchers disappear. One has a soulmark that peeks above the collar of his armor, and Jaskier feels his eyebrows jump. So Witchers can have soulmarks—soul _mates._ Interesting.

“No. We don’t normally bring people back from expeditions like this; I need to bring you to the Wolf before I do anything.”

“What if he doesn’t agree to let me stay?” Jaskier wonders aloud as Eskel leads him through a maze of identical stone hallways. He’s curious as to whether the design feature was deliberate, an effort to confuse anyone who might possibly invade.

“He will.” Eskel offers him a knowing smile. “He may be the big bad White Wolf, but he’s hardly the monster that the rumors make him out to be.”

“I hope so.”

Jaskier looks down at his hand where it’s wrapped around the neck of his lute, and considers how minutes ago it was wrapped around a useless scrap of demeaning silk. He likes this better. Even if they have no use for a bard here, even if he has to spend the rest of his life waking up hours before dawn to prep bread, he’ll never have to touch that shawl again. He can live with whatever the Wolf’s judgement may be.

Eskel eventually knocks on an entirely nondescript door before striding in like he owns the place, not even waiting for a response. Jaskier flexes his fingers around the lute and walks through after Eskel. What kind of warlord’s fortress is this, where—presumably—the warlord himself can be found in such an ordinary, out-of-the-way room?

The room is an office, with a hearth set directly across from the door. There’s a desk on the right side of the room, set parallel to the adjacent walls, with bookshelves covering the left wall. It’s cozy, overall. It doesn’t look like the office of a warlord. Is it the office of a steward? It would make sense if he’s to be offered a position here, but Eskel had said he was taking Jaskier to the Wolf. He won’t need a job if the Wolf rejects him, after all.

The moment Jaskier lays eyes on the man inside the office, he knows that this is no steward; this is truly the office of the White Wolf himself.

The man is massive, larger than Jaskier and larger even than Eskel. His hair is stark white, the shade of new-fallen snow, tied away from his face in an inexpert braid. Jaskier could probably cut himself on the man’s jaw and drown in his dimple. His eyes aren’t amber like Eskel’s, but a captivating gold like endless sunsets. He has lips that are pink and plump and chapped, but Jaskier wants desperately—in a passing fancy—to kiss them. He wears a simple linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough for Jaskier to admire the definition of his pecs and the way that a silver medallion rests between them.

“Geralt, hey. So he says he’s willing to swear loyalty to you,” Eskel leads with, gesturing to Jaskier by his side.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier blurts dazedly, setting his lute gently against the wall. “You’re fucking _hot.”_

“I...” The White Wolf— _Geralt_ , apparently, and no wonder he uses a made-up name to inspire fear because Geralt isn’t exactly a fear-worthy name—gapes at him, one hand moving to clutch at his covered forearm. “You’re not bad yourself,” he says, and promptly looks mortified.

Jaskier can’t be bothered to care about the White Wolf’s expression as the right side of his adonis belt lights up like a fire. He gasps and plants a splayed-finger palm over it, letting his mouth hang open as the warmth rushes through his stomach, down his legs to make his knees weak, rises to wrap around his neck like a scarf.

Of all the people he could be soulmates with...

“Oh,” Eskel says, very obviously shocked. “So he can stay, I’m assuming? Also—” He points at Geralt, a smug grin pulling at his lips. “—you owe me. Like, for forever.”

“Just… shut up and get out.” The White Wolf waves at the door without taking his eyes from Jaskier. “Go take a bath; you’re covered in blood.”

“Yes, my lord,” Eskel mocks, but does as asked and leaves them alone.

Geralt stands shakily from his desk when the door shuts and approaches Jaskier like one might approach a skittish horse. His chest is heaving, and the medallion glinting in the light is distracting but not enough for Jaskier to pry his eyes from Geralt’s. Both of them are breathing hard.

Just when Geralt steps close enough for Jaskier to feel his body heat, he pauses. The two of them are trembling, overwhelmed just by the sight of each other. Jaskier’s gaze roams Geralt’s face, the charming dips and curves of it, all overshadowed by the bright, bright gold of his eyes. Geralt’s hands, so warm and broad, flutter up to cradle Jaskier’s face, and he swears he feels his knees give out for a brief moment. They’re heavily calloused, but he knows on a basic, instinctual level that they’d never be used to hurt him.

“I didn’t think I’d ever actually meet you,” Jaskier breathes.

“Nor I you.” Geralt’s mouth, unimpeded by scars, twitches upwards.

Jaskier doesn’t know who moves forward first. He thinks it’s both of them, because their lips crash together almost painfully. But soon enough they find the proper rhythm, and Geralt’s lips slide against his as softly as a prayer. They are chapped, like Jaskier had first seen, but it hardly ruins the kiss. It might be able to be classified as one long kiss, or maybe it’s more accurately described as a long series of short kisses. In any case, by the time Geralt moves to his neck Jaskier is thoroughly out of breath.

One of Geralt’s hands is petting the hair at the base of Jaskier’s skull, and the other has migrated downwards to rest on Jaskier’s hip. In a state of shock from his recent and drastic change of fortune, Jaskier can only fist his hands in the fabric above Geralt’s glorious, glorious pecs as Geralt nuzzles into his neck.

Jaskier’s gut turns to ice when Geralt stops and goes stiff against him.

“You smell like sex,” Geralt rumbles.

“That does make sense, yes,” Jaskier says, his voice gone breathy. “I was King Vizimir’s favorite, uh, entertainer. How do you think Eskel found me? I wasn’t hiding in my room with the other servants; I was in Vizimir’s bed.”

There’s a vibration under Jaskier’s hands, and he realizes with a start that Geralt is _growling._ His heart leaps into his throat, which Geralt still has his mouth pressed against. He hadn’t thought to be concerned about his soulmate’s response to Jaskier’s station in life, should he ever be lucky enough to properly meet them. After all, if they were his soulmate, weren’t they supposed to be perfect for him?

“It wasn’t—It wasn’t my choice,” Jaskier is quick to explain, feeling tears clamber up his throat and choke him. “I was a slave.”

Geralt’s growling gets worse. Jaskier closes his burning eyes and bites his lip, determined not to further lower Geralt’s opinion of him. He’ll leave Kaer Morhen, he tells himself, and it’ll be fine. Or he’ll get a job in Kaer Morhen that keeps him far, far out of Geralt’s path so he can live past forty without disappointing the man who was supposed to be his perfect match any more than he already has.

Except: “How dare that bastard touch you,” Geralt all but snarls into his neck. “I’ll slaughter everyone who ever put their hands on you without your enthusiastic consent.”

“My hero,” Jaskier sighs wetly, dizzy with relief. “That’s not necessary. Although if you were to completely decimate every slaving network on the Continent, I’d be much obliged.”

“Your wish is my command,” Geralt murmurs, lifting his mouth back to Jaskier’s. “I would gladly destroy everyone who ever contributed to your suffering.”

Jaskier can’t hold himself back anymore and wraps his arms around Geralt’s broad shoulders with a sob. “Fuck, could you be more perfect?” he asks, voice muffled by Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m going to kill everyone who created all those awful rumors about you being a monster; you’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met.”

Geralt laughs against his temple. It’s quite possibly the sweetest sound that Jaskier has heard in all his years of life, rich and warm. Jaskier wants to wrap himself in it like an upgraded version of those damned shawls and never take it off.

“I do have a question, though,” Jaskier mumbles. Geralt makes a questioning, encouraging noise, and so Jaskier continues. “Are the rumors about Witcher’s dicks true? Because you may be the hottest man I’ve ever seen and my actual soulmate, but if your dick is spiked like a cat’s and has a knot like a wolf’s, there are going to be issues.”

“It’s… big,” Geralt says, stilted. “But it’s just like a human’s, otherwise.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Jaskier sighs. “I can handle big.” He pulls back just far enough to offer Geralt a wink and a smirk. “I _like_ big.”

Geralt snorts, but he’s smiling and it makes his face light up like the damn sun. “You’re unbelievable. But you’re not… scarred, or anything?”

“I’m plenty scarred,” Jakier admits. “Don’t ever call me Little Doll, make me touch eye kohl, or make me wear any kind of shawl. But otherwise, I think I’m fine.”

“Got it,” Geralt says. “A banned nickname, no eye kohl, and no shawls. Shouldn’t be hard.”

He doesn’t ask, and Jaskier is endeared all the more by it. Geralt likely has scars of his own—internal as well as external—and Jaskier will learn about them in time, but for now he’s content to stand in Geralt’s embrace and be held with pure intentions.

“Who did your hair?” Jaskier asks once he’s committed Geralt’s smoke-and-pine scent to memory. It’s a crude braid, sloppy and beginning to fall apart. Jaskier wonders who the fearsome Warlord of the North would allow to do his hair like that.

“...My daughter.”

“Your—” Jaskier chokes on the word and feels the wind fade from his sails. He doesn’t know if he can be the “mistress” again, the sidepiece used for pleasure only. “You have a wife?”

Geralt shakes his head. His hands tighten where they’re gripping Jaskier’s hip, and he realizes with a flush of shame that if Eskel could smell Jaskier’s lack of loyalty, Geralt can probably smell his rising panic.

“No,” Geralt rumbles. “No wife. Witchers are infertile; she’s a Child of Surprise.”

“Oh.” All the fear leaves Jaskier in a rush that leaves him dizzy yet again, like a damsel from a ballad. It’s a good thing that Geralt and his broad, strong hands are there to support him. “I was a Child of Surprise too, you know—inherited by a Count and sold into slavery when I stopped being cute and started being annoying.”

Geralt starts growling again. “Who could do that to a child?” he demands.

“My father,” Jaskier quips. “Well, not my real one, but the only one I remember.” He offers Geralt a small smile. “I’m sure your Child of Surprise is spoiled rotten here. What’s her name?”

Safely redirected, Geralt’s grip softens as he replies, “Cirilla.”

“Ci—Like the princess? The Cintran princess who supposedly drowned with her parents as a baby about a decade ago?”

“Hmm.”

With impeccable timing, the door flies open and a pale mass tumbles into the room. It’s a girl, Jaskier realizes as she rights herself and sweeps her long, almost-white hair away from her face. It’s a girl who looks to be about twelve, with the same green eyes that Princess Pavetta was said to have had.

It’s Cirilla.

“Uncle Eskel says you found your soulmate!” she shouts delightedly at Geralt, having missed Jaskier’s presence in her childish glee.

“I did,” Geralt tells her, his face gone completely soft. Something deep in Jaskier’s heart twangs, but not painfully.

Jaskier offers a small wave. “Hello, Cirilla.”

Gasping for breath, Eskel—still unbathed—skids to a stop just inside the room. “Menace,” he pants. “How are you so fast? I told you not to burst into his office and disturb him.”

“She’s not disturbing anything.” Geralt keeps one hand on Jaskier’s waist, but uses the other one to tug Cirilla into a hug. “I’m not that lecherous, asshole.”

“I never said that you were!” Eskel sputters.

“Hi,” Cirilla says, quiet now. Her arms are bent at the elbow, pressed between her chest and her father’s side. Her face is tilted sideways, also pressed into him, and she’s trapped one of his feet between her own. “What’s your name?”

The smile that comes over Jaskier’s face is uncontrollable. “Jaskier,” he says.

“That’s a pretty name. You’re pretty.” She directs her eyes skyward, towards her father’s face. “Dad, isn’t he pretty?”

“He’s very pretty.” With his arms still slung over Geralt’s shoulders, Jaskier is well within kissing range, and he feels his face burn when Geralt presses a featherlight kiss to his cheekbone.

“I’m not prettier than _you,”_ Jaskier deflects. “You’re quite possibly the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen Princesses Milena and Dalimira of Redania.”

Cirilla giggles and shuffles further into her father’s embrace.

“Don’t let her looks fool you,” Eskel warns. “We call her the Menace for a reason.”

“I can climb the chimneys as fast as the Cats!” Cirilla boasts, and although Jaskier doesn’t know what cats have to do with anything, he understands the chimney-climbing bit and is a little worried about what this girl will someday do to the Continent.

“That’s nice,” Jaskier says.

A wide yawn splits Jaskier’s face, so powerful that he rocks back on his feet and almost loses his balance. Geralt, in a flash, slides his arm fully around Jaskier’s face and pulls him inwards. Jaskier nuzzles into the side of Geralt’s neck, awed by how nice Geralt smells and how unbelievable the past hour has been. His whole body feels heavy with lethargy.

“It’s bedtime for you, Menace,” Eskel says fondly, and Ciri pouts but lets herself be led out of the room.

Once he has an arm free Geralt wraps Jaskier in a full embrace, setting his godlike chin on Jaskier’s shoulder. He keeps his face buried in Geralt’s neck, suddenly exhausted on a bone-deep level. Today has been overwhelming, and he really, desperately wants to go to sleep, preferably in Geralt’s arms.

“I’m sure you’re tired, too.” Geralt rumbles.

Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s neck, hoping the sound is taken as the affirmative it is. “I’ve had a long day.”

“I can find you a guest room, if you’d like,” Geralt says. He sounds… hesitant. “Or you could sleep in mine, if you’re comfortable.”

“I’d like that,” Jaskier mumbles. “Sleeping with you, that is.”

“Yeah?” Geralt asks. Jaskier feels his lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against his temple.

“I feel safe around you. Safer than I have in a long time.”

Geralt’s hug tightens, hovering just shy of painful. Jaskier can’t stop the goofy grin that splits across his face as he all but collapses against Geralt, secure in the knowledge that Geralt will catch him, that Geralt won’t let anything happen to him. He has a soulmate. He has a _soulmate_ , a man who controls a good-sized chunk of the continent, a man who is fearsome and sweet and hot as hell and lets his daughter braid his hair.

 _Suck it, dad,_ he thinks hysterically. As the soulmate of the Warlord of the North, it’s extremely likely that he’s now higher ranking and more powerful than the man who’d raised him. After all, hadn’t Geralt just minutes ago said that Jaskier’s word was his command? It may have been hyperbolic, but Jaskier considers Geralt’s full-chested growl and thinks, _Maybe not._

“If I have any say in it, you’ll never feel unsafe again,” Geralt tells him.

“I don’t doubt it,” Jaskier whispers.

“I’ll show you around Kaer Morhen tomorrow, introduce you to everyone,” Geralt says, scratching at Jaskier’s back with blunted fingernails. Jaskier resists a full-body shudder, but can’t hold back a low, happy sound. “But for now, I think we both need to rest.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier presses a gentle kiss to the place where Geralt’s neck and shoulder meet and feels the mighty warlord shiver. “Yeah, resting with you sounds good. It sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you very much for reading! I was working on another project inspired by inex's lovely, lovely Accidental Warlord series, but this shorter idea just came to me and I wrote it in two days like some sort of madwoman. I may finish that eventually or I may not, who knows? Certainly not me, who's currently drowning under excessive fic ideas that keep trying to turn into novel-length projects. Feel free to leave kudos and comments; they feed both my soul and my overactive imagination!


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